


Aufziehen

by luckubus



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Consensual, Creampie, Dirty Talk, F/M, Falling In Love, First Time, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Pregnancy Kink, Pseudo-Incest, Sex Pollen, Will edit later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 06:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19718149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckubus/pseuds/luckubus
Summary: Aufziehen [German, v.]: i) To string a violin, etc. ii) To draw up the curtain at a theatre.“Vanya,” he begins slowly, raggedly. She’s known him long enough, well enough, intimately enough — her brain fizzes and crackles at the termintimatelyand nausea roils promptly in her belly, mortifying and coaxing all at once — to know it is taking a herculean effort for him to speak. “I got... into... some trouble. I was exposed to— to a substance. And it is... imperative... that you... you don’t come... any closer. T-to me.”





	Aufziehen

It has been one week, four days, and ten hours since Five left. Again.

Vanya is frankly tired of this repeating pattern. She is tired of the secrecy; tired of the softly-roiling anxiety that writhes under the tissue of her organs like sick vines, constricting. She is tired of waiting, wondering with a dull ache if he is going to come back again this time. If it will be years again.

 _I have an idea_ , he said. _This one can’t go wrong_ , he swore. _I won’t let it_ , he smirked.

It’s not like she even had time to argue with him. She wondered if this is what it felt like being in proximity of obnoxious genius all the time — did Einstein’s wife deal with this nonsense? What about Newton? Edis—

Vanya halts herself mid-thought, mid-step, with a flush of heat going up her neck. Five is her... They’re not. That way. He’s her brother, sort of, in whatever the most possibly unconventional meaning of that word could ever be — he’s different. He’s her best friend. Or confidant.

He’s just... Five. She pulls out her phone and checks the little app in the corner — yep, definitely ovulating.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that even after allegedly averting an apocalypse, the zealot was still chomping at the bit to drag some unseen enemy to hell. He’d explained it a few times; there was a firm of sorts, in the future, bent on “maintaining the order” or whatever that really meant, and he had... _issues_ with them.

Vanya sighed. He needed therapy like the rest of them.

Whether by the irony of fate or greater designs of the universe, it’s only seven seconds after she sighs that she feels, hears that _shift_ of some existence rearranging itself to spit out the man in question.

And something is wrong.

Time moves slowly for a moment, like syrup through an hourglass. The electric blue of the portal sizzles and warps and fades, leaving its creator in its place, and something is incredibly _wrong_. His jacket is missing, as is his tie; his collar is ragged, mostly unbuttoned, and his sleeves are not rolled, but yanked up. His hair is in disarray. Vanya immediately fumbles towards him, all thoughts of irritation evaporating with the time door and replacing itself with an avalanche of sharp, coppery fear.

And then his head swings up, only a few short paces from her, and the seaglass of his irises are nothing but a scant ring around his blown pupils.

“Do _not_.” He rasps, his voice a full octave lower than usual and tight, like every muscle in his body is trembling and ready to snap.

Five breathes in, shakily, and exhales a painful groan as his eyes shut and he falls to his knees.

Vanya gawks. She’s paralyzed.

Every bone in _her_ body is _screaming_ with wild abandon to go to him and _do something_. Anything. Her frantic gaze floats over him like a swarm, checking and assessing from afar for signs of damage, but she can’t make out anything past a few cursory scrapes and bruises. The way his shoulders shake violently. The hard, sharp set of his jaw and gritted teeth.

“Are you...” Vanya hears her voice trail off dumbly, “hurt?”

Five shifts, his fists clenched on the lacquered wood of her floor. She watches as he flexes his fingers, biting into the grain for a moment before he works his mandible and forces himself to speak. “Not... exactly. She got me with something. Dunno what yet. Maybe.”

Every word is short, curt. Vanya swallows thickly and prepares herself to ask the next stressful question.

“...How... How long was it for you?”

Par for the course, it feels kind of like every part of her is sitting drenched in ice water. It’s easily her least favourite part of this. It is never _not_ inherently terrifying — a mix of dread, defeat, uncertain hope, vague panic — and it reminds her, with some small amount of guilt, as to why their father had so adamantly rejected his attempts _to_ time travel; older and wiser, she can guess and be miserable over all the ways it can go terribly, catastrophically wrong.

Five had told her some of those ways, too. That sometimes he might be gone, and the numbers just wouldn’t add up. Last time she checked, he had clocked some extra months on them all, and the memory of his smug _I’m the eldest now_ almost made her hiccup.

“Just under two weeks,” he answered tersely. He winced, inhaled sharply, and when his eyes opened again, there was another moment punctuated by the way he looked at her. His gaze was molten. He never made eye contact; he just peered in her direction for less than a second, sweeping down her anatomy with a heavy, uncomfortable heat and weight. Vanya could almost tangibly feel the way he moved down her, and almost forgets to be relieved he had gotten his timing down mostly right. Small blessings, after all.

Five blinks, slow like a cat, working his jaw as he stares distantly at some speck on the wall.

Instead, helpless, she watches as he slowly drags himself back to his feet. He’s taller than her, easily, even though he’s hunched over. He gives her one unreadable, heavy glance as he braces himself on the wall — she’s still not allowed to go near him, though she can’t grasp why — and begins hauling himself to her living room bookshelf.

Vanya follows, careful to maintain her distance, a little like tracking a wounded animal. Once he’s there, he grapples with a few shelves and novels, reaching behind and past the dust to pull out... papers? What _were_ those?

Five drops himself inelegantly to the floor again, sheaf in hand. He’s thumbing through it, and amidst the shuffling papers she sees his familiar, fast-paced scrawl — notes? He had hid notes here, in her place? She doesn’t know whether to be touched or astounded.

“...Five?” She asks softly.

“Sec,” he rumbles. He’s across the room from her, but he already looks worse. His movements are sluggish and he still won’t talk much. He finally reaches a page that he scrutinizes, front and back, eyes darting across the ink as his expression steadily turns into something strained, unpleasant. Over and over, he looks at the same information, and then inevitably slaps his notes on the floor with a ruffled _smack_ and frustrated snarl.

“ _Fuck_ this,” Five mutters, and Vanya’s worry escalates into an inelegant crescendo.

“Five, you need to tell me what’s going on.” Her voice is, shamelessly, a warble. She can’t take much more worrying, and if he needs to go to the hospital, then she— 

“Pollen,” he answers, clipped.

The longer he sits there, the more she sees what’s happening physiologically; the warm cream of his skin is splotched with angry shades of rose, crawling up his neck and throat to his cheeks and ears. “That— that insipid, _wretched_ bit _—_ ”

“Pollen?” 

Vanya is struggling to keep up, unsurprisingly, and she hates feeling stupid. What he’s saying is making zero sense, and for sure has to do with some sort of future bullshit she’s not yet informed of, and it’s midway through a shaky breath and the first stirrings of true, deep panic, that she realizes something strange.

Five smells _amazing_.

There’s the musky, familiar smell, of course — but there’s also something else, something thicker and heavier and intoxicating. He smells like a _bakery_ of sex. Vanya swallows, unaware of how hard her mouth had started watering on reflex, and suddenly she feels too warm under the collar, a little clammy, palms sweaty, too.

“Uh,” she chokes, her hand distantly deciding to cover her mouth and the tip of her nose, as if it would shelter her from the befuddling fragrance.

This time, when his eyes rake over her, it’s more like heat lightning. It’s like bulbs exploding on her skin. She hardly remembers how to breathe, and gapes at him.

“Vanya,” he begins slowly, raggedly. She’s known him long enough, well enough, intimately enough — her brain fizzes and crackles at the term _intimately_ and nausea roils promptly in her belly, mortifying and coaxing all at once — to know it is taking a herculean effort for him to speak. There is something deep and raw in his stare, the way his body subtly trembles and his muscles jerk without meter or reason, that betrays a darker truth. “I got... into... some trouble.” He sucks in a breath through his teeth, chest rattling; she does not fixate on his tongue laving over his bottom lip to wet it. “I was exposed to— to a substance. And it is... imperative... that you... you don’t come... any closer. T-to me.”

When the period leaves his mouth, his whole body wrenches and he practically _growls_ under his breath as he presses his forehead to the floor, clawing faintly at the wood on either side of him before making two tight fists. Restraint — but from what? What did this pollen _do_ to him?

Vanya’s throat is dry. She hears every single hoarse breath he takes, and with each one, struggles again and again not to go to his side and do _something_. Anything. Uselessly, her fingers curl in front of her, and her heart trembles and then pounds and repeats. 

“But you have to let me help you somehow,” she says, voice cracking. She’s too frazzled to cry just yet, and still affected by the oddly cloying aroma he’s brought with him. “Please. Please, please, please. Tell me what I have to do. I’ll do anything for you, just tell me—”

“Shut _up_.”

Vanya freezes. His form on the ground has gone eerily still.

“Shutupshutupshut _up_ you’re going to— to be the death of me if you... keep... _nnghh—_ ”

It almost sounds like he’s _whining_. The ball he’s in goes smaller, desperate to crawl away from her, and Vanya grimaces at her own inadequacy.

The sheaf of paper catches her attention from the corner of her eye.

While Five labors and writhes, she shuffles the sheets into her hands and quickly begins skimming it herself. Much of it means nothing to her without context, but at some point she sees the word _polen_ and latches onto the—

_Oh._

The entire back page is a diagram, first — rough approximations of a human body, and displaying in great detail the sexual arousal response. Almost like a brochure, the empty gaps around the illustration contain keywords tangentially related to their root terms; Vanya sees _irrationale, despate, sensite, fervor, possat, virit._ She can make a few educated guesses: Irrational. Desperate. Sensitive. Fevered. Possessive. Virile.

Oh. 

Five is... No, his body— he. He is.

The seconds tick by humidly. Five smells _divine_.

She knew in her bones where life was going. Not due to fate at the very least, but for the sake that she wanted him, deep down, and that the moment she considered even the faintest concept of what she might have to do to help him, she felt anticipation. The good kind. She felt a hypothetical weight being lifted from her shoulders, like Atlas shrugging.

Not even a drop of unease pervades it.

“So it’s an aphrodisiac sort of thing.” 

Vanya's voice is surprisingly even for a woman who’s just accepted years of a quietly-repressed fact. But she’ll worry about that when the person who matters most to her isn’t in some kind of agony. She wets her lips, and Five grunts unpleasantly before folding in on himself like a snake coiling on the ground. 

Imagine if he uncoiled. Decided to strike instead. Vanya feels hot from the vertigo, and she ventures to speak.

“If I... help you... will this pass faster?”

“Vanya.” 

Five’s shoulders have gone rigid and braced, knuckles white against the flooring. He’s determinedly boring his stare into the shadow below him, and his words are muffled against the panels. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, dear sister-mine.” 

She knows it’s a jab styled precisely to plant seeds of doubt in her reasoning, and further exacerbate any seeds that were ever there to begin with.

There are none. Vanya has had enough therapy to keep her soil well-tilled; no weeds for miles.

Adrenaline is coursing through her veins, but her heart is steady in its trampling pace. With a flex of her hands, she unbuttons another button of her collared shirt, exposing the gap under her clavicle — and she blanches when she realizes it’s one of his, she had just grabbed it without thinking before bed, oh Christ on the _cross_ — and falters, wondering if she had the mental fortitude to go to her room and get the lube she keeps in her drawer. Just in case.

Blue sizzles in the air and a pair of hands alight on hers, holding them between both of their bodies.

“Please,” Five says, hollow. Hoarse. Something frail lingers in his aura, and her intuition thinks it might be his self-control. He smiles weakly. “Don’t do this to me. If I get my hands on you, I—” He chokes to a stop, mouth snapped shut with his tired eyes. “I want you. Right now. Terribly. Do you understand me, Vanya?”

The echo in his undertone was _terribly_. He was warning her with his last coherent breaths that this would not be easy, nor necessarily safe, or good, or...

Oh well. Might as well rip the bandaid off fast. Vanya smiles meekly.

“Do it,” she dares, and her last show of bravery affords her a long, liquid moment of his gaze narrowing on her, burning icy and thin as his lips curl and he closes the gap between them.

The point of no return had clearly passed an eon prior for him as well. Five’s mouth slants across Vanya’s without hesitation, devouring her with a pent-up kiss and forcing her to taste the first licks of the fire he repressed. His hands, hot and possessive, latch onto her arms and hold her exactly in place so he can kiss her as he pleases, tilting her head back, sucking the air from her lungs greedily. Her lips feels swollen under the weight of his hunger, and obscenely slick, and his tongue sweeps across hers and she’s glad he’s holding her up because her knees are earnest to give already.

He’s impressively dexterous despite his compromised state. Still bracing her weight, he steers them backwards, up against the smooth side of her bookcases. Vanya is comfortably sandwiched between him and the painted wood, and his hands are working ambitiously to pop every seam that holds the buttons on her borrowed shirt together. She almost can’t catch her breath, her heart high up in her throat and the room spinning as his mussed bangs tickle her forehead with another heavy kiss, searing palms cupping around her breasts. The rough texture of his thumbs pass over her stiff nipples, and she feels him sigh happily against her at it for reasons she can't begin to fathom — she can’t quite comprehend him enjoying this, this much, not when it all feels so sudden and like a dream still.

But Five continues on ravenously. Just as Vanya gets acclimated to her bare skin and his demanding ministrations, he shifts and moves; her bruised lips are given brief reprieve as his teeth drag across her jaw, parted and damp and sharp as his they catch her skin. He nuzzles to the place under her ear before wrapping his lips around soft skin and sucking harshly.

“F- _Five_ ,” Vanya squeaks without her own permission, arching up into his waiting hold. “Y-you—!”

“Me?” He hums against her bare flesh. “What about me?” It’s muffled by the junction of her throat and neck, and his teeth find purchase there, too, suckling another needless, sticky mark onto her body. The one under her ear is already a prickled burgundy, but the one above her shoulders is wider, shiny and pink.

Five blinks, syrupy, and drops his gaze to her tits. A second ticks. She gasps, sharply, as he rams her against the shelving with force and cranes down.

His grip on her arms is almost certainly going to leave prints, Vanya thinks blearily, but she’s distracted by how his mesmerizing scent is clouding her head and how the cool air highlights the sensation of his drool drying across her skin where his mouth had just tormented her.

His lips, well-practiced and quite warmed up, found a sensitive, swollen nipple, and drew it against his teeth with a generous suck.

“Fff-f _uuhhh_ — F-Five, _ffhgnh_ , Fiiive...” Vanya keens deliriously at how sudden and electrically the pleasure lacerates through her nerves to her core and back. The endless feedback loop is exacerbated by his insistent tongue, lapping hard against her breast, and just when she thinks her tear ducts are starting to tingle he breaks away with an obscene _pop_ and latches onto the skin above it instead.

He sucks, again. Harder.

Vanya squirms and stammers nonsense several octaves too high, begging and pleading. She’s going to look like a crime scene by the time he’s done with her if he keeps this up, and she’s wondering why that thought is only making her feel fluttery and wet rather than fretful. Her shoulder blades are rapidly growing faintly slippery with perspiration, and it makes her slide up and down her shelving as she tries to deter Five’s sinful mouth and give in to it simultaneously.

Systematically, thoroughly, Five leaves a trail of saliva and vivid sores across her bosom like a canvas of his particular appetites. Red lines puff up from the scrape of his teeth, outlining the divots of where they plowed into the flesh around each hickey.

Much of her chest shines with his drool and a layer of sweat. 

“M’gonna be inside you in a minute,” he comments off-handedly as he sucks another rosy smudge into the underside of a breast. Her nipples are raw and straining from the punishing regimen of his fingers twisting and tugging them sporadically. “And this time it’ll be real and not... something I made up.” With both hands, he takes her breasts into them, squeezing, massaging their soft heft against his fingers as he nips at their sensitive tips. “And it’ll feel so good — so _fucking_ good — that you’ll forget to be mad at me for leaving all the time. You have _no_ right to be mad when I miss you just as much as—” He pauses, licks the corner of his mouth, “ _Twice_ as much as—”

“O-oh, ff- _fuck_ you!”

Instantly his fingers knotted into her hair, finding purchase and wrangling her into arched, taut submission. His lips curl, lopsided: “I’m _trying_ , dear. Cooperate.”

Cooperate she does. Vanya melts, her subconscious perfectly happy to give in and let him do as he pleases to her. Five welcomes her vulnerability, dipping his head down to presumably brand her once more — but instead he leaves soft, chaste kisses up the column of her throat and she _shivers_ , boneless.

By the time he makes it to her mouth again, he has her underwear rolled down to her knees and he’s kissing her like a perfect gentleman.

“Spread,” he murmurs against her tender lips. “And give me your knee.”

In her haze, Vanya muses on the disconnect in his eyes to his words. His gaze is vacant, glazed — completely overwrought by his own desires. It’s nothing short of a miracle that he’s still talking in semi-lucid sentences. She wonders if it’s because she’s being so compliant, and then that thought evaporates as she shimmies out of her panties to raise her leg and he grips it firmly, exposing her to him.

Vanya swallows hard, can’t look anywhere. She doesn’t know when he undid his trousers, but they’re unzipped and she can see the hot, rosy curve of his cock and even the way it glistens with an appalling amount of precum.

Her heart lurches. She hopes this is okay for him, too. She hopes this stupid, impulsive decision was fueled by something good for once and that she hadn’t just ruined the one wonderful thing left in her life sometimes, she—

“Good?” Five asks, abruptly. His chest is heaving with exertion, and Vanya’s heart promptly buckles, wondering if he had somehow read her mind. But no, she retracts her previous statement: his gaze is not vacant. Some part of him is still very real, and very present, and maybe it’s just the lighting or her own delusions, but he looks more beautiful and wondrous and good than almost anything else she’s ever seen.

She doesn’t even have to answer him. He watches her emotions trace across her face in his own heady fog, and sighs languidly before pressing his forehead to hers and nuzzling. His nose tucks into her hair, and he breathes in, long and deep, and she feels something insistent push up against her entrance.

All of her feels hot and swollen and too-sensitive to the touch. Five mindlessly croons low-toned obscenities and praises as his cockhead breaches the dripping seam of her lips, then strokes up instead. The entirety of his shaft is coated in her juices, and the single brush against her clit has Vanya spluttering in place as she clenches around nothing.

“D-don’t,” she stammers, clawing at anything for purchase and unable to finish her own sentence. Five just tugs her rigidly back into position, and kisses her temple soothingly.

“Relax,” he whispers, and she tries to, and then it doesn’t matter because he’s pushing against her again. His tip is thick and squishy, until he nudges it in and it’s so very suddenly unyielding and _oh_.

“Oh,” Vanya whimpers, dizzy with sensation, “oh, oh fff— fuck, oh, F _-Five_ —”

“I know, I know,” he coos back, stroking back her hair from her face. He enters her centimeter by centimeter, stretching her open with vicious precision. Five ensures that her walls wrap around every inch of him perfectly, careful not to hurt her, only earnest to make her body accept him until it was full and desperate and wanting for nothing more but him, him, her, his, _them_.

And oh, how her sweet center welcomes him _greedily_. Every time he thinks he surely can’t sink any deeper inside of her, she takes another inch of him, and then another, and of course he only bottoms out once his entire length nestles within her. He feels complete for the first time in over a decade, splintered segments of his heart reattaching with raw, tender threads as he drinks in Vanya’s exquisitely dazed expression.

“Cute,” he says, barely a whisper, not even meaning to say it aloud. He blinks, not quite all there himself, and Vanya reacts by making some small, tantalizing noise and clenching around him. Five can only gasp and twitch inside her grasp, burning under all his skin.

He hikes her leg around his waist, hand splayed soundly across the hooked shape of her knee, and draws out of her painstakingly. When only her engorged, sticky pink lips are left parted around him, he leans in, and through proximity alone forces her to make eye contact.

She’s so beautiful. She’s adorable. She’s the whole godforsaken fucking package. Five’s brain is more scrambled than an encryptor and the meticulously compartmentalized section, the one that sometimes considers how she’s the only person he’s ever tolerated enough to want to marry, pollutes the part that wants to fuck her in every thoroughly debauched way in the books, and _that_ part bleeds over messily into the mental box that likes how her cheeks stretch around her private only-for-him smiles and how even when she’s mad she looks like a painting.

He almost calls her cute again. Almost. But he can smell how wet she is from here, tangy and floral and sweet and sharp and utterly god damn intoxicating, and absently kisses her nose on second thought before burying himself into her cunt without mercy. The relief is instantaneous.

The first sound she makes is silence — the air escapes her lungs and she looks like an angel, her sherry-coloured eyes wide and unfocused and her lips parted soundlessly. Her skin is mottled with arousal, pink and flushed, and her nails instinctively scrabble at any surface, anything to hold onto. Five gladly snatches up her wrists, laces their fingers in one hand and gropes his way down her thigh to sink his grip into her ass and haul her up higher into his hold.

He’s more than happy to fuck her harder.

The pollen keeps a tenuous hold on him, however, and he treads a fine line between giving into the delicious, tempting maelstrom of instinct that it elicits, or maintaining the fragile control of his faculties. Every hedonistic voice in his head screams and rails for release, for relief. He can’t ignore the sordid film reel of fantasy it produces for him — _cum in every hole and fill her up and claim her and keep her and please her and take her in every position in every room_ — but he can breathe; can let it feed through his fingers. Give it just enough attention to not possess him entirely and ravish her without sense or decorum.

A dark voice laden with disdain cuts through the haze of his lust: _At least it’s Vanya._

Five’s eyes narrow dispassionately and he slots his hips against hers, harsh. Every thrust is hard and rough and at an unfair pace, hungry for everything she has to offer. _At least it’s Vanya_. He knows The Handler was trying to pull a very devious and repulsively shrewd fast one on him — he knows if he hadn’t been quick on his feet, it would be another’s company with him, and he would not have been able to live with himself afterwards.

 _Well_ , the same, worthless voice laughs mirthlessly, _we’ll see if you can live with this, too_.

Fuck.

Five crushes one of her hands above her head, pinning it there, and changes his tempo to deeper and choppy. Vanya’s caught her breath, it seems, and he gladly buries himself in her over and over to the sounds of her pitched whimpers. His name is nectar and honey from her lips, and his brain mushes all its perverse desires again with the urge to _fuckherkisshermarryher **take** her_.

“You’re doing so good,” he rasps, suddenly overcome with the need to compliment her. She’s keeping up so well. She feels so _good_. Does she know how much he cares? Maybe it’s the pollen talking. Or maybe it’s the pollen destroying his stringently-maintained filters. “A n-natural. Could fuck you f-forever. _Fuck_ —”

He thinks she warbles out an incoherent _pleasepleaseplease_ or something like it. But she does, for certain, arch up into him further, shaking and moaning, and he catches her meekly peeking at him from under her eyelashes.

If he wasn’t under the influence of biological sildenaphil, he’d be done from that look alone. Alas, he is not, and all he wants to do is lovingly and sufficiently wreck her against every surface of her precious apartment.

So he shall. Except—

“Five,” Vanya sobs. His spine fizzles as a tingle rolls down it from tip to base, down further to his toes. She’s like _music_. “I-I’m— I think m’gonna— o-oh, oh, no, nono—”

Oh yes. Oh fucking _yes_.

He juts into her at an angle that he hopes does what he wants it to do. Feverish, his hands grab and pull and grope, eager to overclock her already-frayed nerves.

Vanya cries out in a way he’s never heard before, her head lolling forward to collapse on his shoulder, and she squirms as her cunt begins to milk him. Her first orgasm spirals through her veins in a thousand volts at once, rending her to a hiccuping, writhing mess.

Five is wholly unprepared for the pollen’s response.

He’s cumming too, he thinks; he can _feel_ the way all of his belly tightens down to the root and the first fluttering spasms of his seed trying to soak her womb. Except it doesn’t. It doesn’t quite make it. His climax, too, nears a peak but stifles itself before it gets there, leaving him in a white-hot, blind flood of ecstasy and something deeper, more primal. Five ruts into Vanya with newfound urgency, obscene groans and strained whimpers escaping the back of his throat as he chases a high he can’t catch, but follows it into aching pleasure in its stead.

Everything is too much and too little and she’s hot and wet and _perfect_ , and Vanya is panting, unreasonably gorgeous with her mussed hair and dappled skin and that adorable fucked-out bliss in her eyes. Five blinks, much of his sense melting away with the vision of her before him, and he gingerly pries her from the shelf.

Vanya collapses into his arms like a lamb. He takes her to the couch with an assortment of sweet, tantalizing murmurs and warm kisses up and down the nape of her neck like a man possessed. He drapes her over the cushions so she’s halfway to sitting on her back, then hauls her thighs up, taking the weight of her lower half into the hard flex of his arms.

His fingers muss over the sticky heat of her cunt, smearing juices across her swollen lips and matted curls. He parts open her folds, tilts his hips, and sinks in again.

Her drawn-out groan is an octave higher and sinful music to his ears. She looks like heaven on fucking earth, displayed only for his unworthy eyes to see.

Part of him wishes, despite it, deep down, that he could have this the right way — that maybe he could come back from his little mission sweaty and scuffed up, but successful, and he’d buy her flowers, and take her out to dinner.

“ _Fiiiiive_ ,” Vanya pleads like melted caramel, barely able to get the syllables out as she whimpers through her arousal. Her fingers are digging into the cushions, white-knuckled, and through the consuming haze of desire is a desperate pang of affection to bring each of her fingers to his lips, kiss each digit individually. _Fucking fuck_ , he wants to laugh, hollow, at the way his gut clenches and it feels like he swells another inch inside of her.

The first round had been raw and rough. This time was terribly, wickedly intimate.

This position allowed Five to roost over her curled, exposed frame — gaze down at her, control her just so, be responsible for making her feel _good_. She had nothing to hide against this way, and nowhere to go.

Five smiled unpleasantly and pivoted in hard. Somehow, he went deeper, better— everything coalesced for a brief moment in fuzzy, sugary starlights— and when Vanya blinked again, she was somehow still on the couch, taking his cock with delicious ease. 

“That face,” Five rasps, hoarse, “that you just made, has made life worth living for a thousand times over.”

“O-oh shut _up!_ ”

“ _Never_.” He does that thing with his hips again — Vanya spends another few eons in blissful oblivion — and she comes to to his thumb stroking against her cheek, his expression adoring. It’s a brutal contrast to the way her body has swelled in all the right, sensitive places, and how he takes advantage of that with his undoing touch. “And I don’t think you mean that anyway.”

He’s right, of course, but she could never say it. Not unless he made her.

She’s distracted, earnestly, by the insistent thought that she could cum again if he just touched her properly, and this time it would probably feel even _better_ , and she wants to see the look on _his_ face when she’s helplessly contracting around him.

Vanya is rightfully disoriented when she tries to take action. Five is fucking her close and tight, and she reaches out haphazardly for his hand, eventually fumbling it into her grip and dragging it down to her cunt.

“Please,” she mumbles without any real explanation. 

But he understands. Five’s breath hitches, she hears it, and his stare is hotter than the devil’s.

“Yeah,” he nods, agreeing. The pads of his fingertips meet her clit, and the friction makes her buckle instantly, the goodness of the feeling insurmountable. Her body couldn’t take it.

“Ah ah, keep it together,” he chides, easing his pace enough to have her gasping in confusion. “I didn’t s-say... Simon says.”

His fingers are nimble, and he’s a good multi-tasker; it’s a double-edged sword. He’s trying to flirt, trying to please her, but he can also feel every supple muscle of her cunt squeeze around his length obscenely as he works her clit. His attention span shorts out, predictably.

“Please, l-let me— again—” She’s like a songbird. Five crumbles almost instantly, weak to her pitiable plight.

“Alright, alright.” It takes only a tick of his lower back, hauling her up an inch higher, pressing her in and filling her up with himself until she forms around him. The perfect well. Her walls tighten, squeezing him and releasing and he sees starry white for a split second before coming back to reality. Reality was Five hunched over Vanya and rutting his cock into her like something feral and possessed, except that hand she’d moved was still planted on her clit with vicious precision, ever the gentleman.

And she’s cumming.

Vanya scrambles for a grip on anything, tries to cry out to express herself, but all of it gets swallowed down and transmuted into her adorable, agonized gasps as she tips over the edge again. The noise doesn’t even sound like her, and that makes it even more special, Five blearily thinks.

“Keep going,” he murmurs, hoarse. Something in him is brimming up again, too, desperate to boil over and spill. The pads of his fingertips pinch the reddened bud beneath them softly, and Vanya buckles harshly underneath him, half-sobbing with sharp pleasure as her cunt milks him longer again for the second time. Her orgasm has almost begun fading, but this had wrought it anew, and she trembled like a leaf, drool smeared across her chin and mouth temptingly.

The vision, the sensations alone are terrible and intense and good and too much, so very much, but Five’s body builds him up a second time and he comes crashing down not at all, just like before. The plummet never comes — his belly trips on itself, pulsing in weak flutters in a quarter of a meager orgasm. The sensitivity it brings almost cramps.

“Vanya,” Five rasps. “V-Vanya, _Vanya_.”

 _Five_ , she chants back, strangled just as he. So much of this is depraved, every fiber of him should reject it and he should be ridden with guilt.

Mindless, he charges forward with the impulse to make her do it again. The ‘for him’ at the end is implied; he is affirmed with every breath of _Five, Five, Five_ , from her lips as he switches to his thumb and immediately presses it back to her swollen clit. He jerks his wrist in short, insistent angles designed to wrench all her focus to that one overstimulated point.

“O-oh—”

She sounds breathless, not at all like herself. A well-earned grin crawls across his face as another orgasm wracks her out of reality, forces her to endure all the sensations he was putting her through so thoroughly. The soft little flutters around his aching cock were worth it, worth every second down to the atom.

He wants to cum _so badly_.

Whatever errant thought about finally releasing inside of her crossed his mind next, it won. Something seemed to shift inside of him, dead set on maneuvering his oh-so-willing mate into an intimate, vulnerable position ripe for the taking. He lets her weight sink into the couch, still clutching each of her thighs under each arm, and instead of holding her up, locks her in. Five allows himself a sublime, mouthwatering moment of staring hungrily at her exposed cunt — pink and glossy and sticky and hot and oh-so desperately in need of something inside of it that only he could— _must_ ever provide, should he not?

“Don’t worry,” Five says absently to himself, tongue running over his teeth as he leans in, “You’ll be nice and full in a minute.”

The muted sound she makes involuntarily in response is a certifiable siren song.

He’s practiced, now; he steps onto a cushion, kneels with the other leg, and slides right into her waiting heat. Something about this — this angle, this position, makes her fit tighter than a glove, snugger than anything he could have dreamt up. Instead of the initial shock of being inside of Vanya, the fresh familiarity of it made him suffocatingly proud, possessive — _his_ cunt. He took it. He takes it. He takes care of her.

With every piston of his hips, the couch scrapes a muffled millimeter across the floor.

He wants that for all of her, actually. Can’t he have all of her? Forever? He _has_ to be touching her. Every fiber of his being needs to be touching her, tasting her, smelling her, borrowing her very presence for his own private company. He fumbles to find her willing mouth and seal his own against it, sucking her lip between his soothing, insistent teeth. His hands give up their iron grip on her glutes and split, one firmly anchoring to her hip and the other cradling behind her neck, tilting her up to his kiss and knotting into her hair.

He’s going — “to cum inside you,” he pants, “so _fucking_ hard.”

Vanya goes all tense and pink and splotchy; just the way he likes, come to think of it.

She’s so pretty. They’ll have handsome kids.

Kids. She’d have to be pregnant—

“Van-ya,” Five mumbles, voice scratchy, head muddled with the single thought, “ _Mmmffuck_ —”

Whatever coiled, taut thing within him there was, it shattered. Snapped. Five grounded himself through immersing his attention on Vanya as his cock pumped out an uncommonly generous amount of cum down her channel, cramming his creamy warmth against her walls. The orgasm rolled over him in waves and waves, each one dribbling a little more out of him and into her in gentle spurts that left him dripping sweat and breathless.

She was cumming, too. Was that the fifth one? He hoped so. Vanya, overstimulated and too-wound up after all his ravenous attention to her, was a perfect writhing mess underneath him, barely able to form syllables or sounds. But her face was red and hot, and her skin was sticky with a layer of exertion and smeared with evidence of their desperation. Her eyes were still trying to focus on the spinning, lopsided room, too — but she was smiling, soft and dreamy, and the way he throbbed at the sight was almost painful.

 _Fuck this fucking pollen_ , a surprisingly rational voice in his head cuts in, and enough synapses fire to remind him that yes, he was under the influence of a biological weapon, and yes, it appeared to be beginning to wear off, but no, was not out of his system as of yet.

Better make the most of it.

Vanya is just coming back to the surface when she’s gathered into a pair of arms, impressively steady despite the effort Five’s just gone through. In one smooth movement, he uses the momentum to pull her up and tuck himself onto the couch beneath her, laying her atop him. He’s still hard inside of her, reluctant to draw out of her mind-melting warmth and spill just yet, so he nuzzles into her neck and leaves petulant, greedy kisses at his discretion as he holds her.

“G-god,” is the first coherent thing he manages to hear out of her. He grins against her damp skin, blows a tendril of hair out of the way as he bites gently.

“Uh-huh,” he murmurs appreciatively.

“Y-you— you gotta stop a second,” Vanya half-laughs, half-moans, clearly torn between descending into pleased delirium and sensibility yet again. “Please.” Five has no urge or inclination to stop, of course, but her pushy hands bat him away enough to force him to pay her the type of attention she _claims_ she wants.

Her smile is much bigger, more lucid and sheepish and present. Five flinches at the intensity of his cock twitching, more ejaculate dribbling out of him, and— _oh_ , her face, watching her face twist and scrunch and get _shy_.

One hand clutches the couch cushion underneath him, and he instinctively clenches his teeth, focuses on a bead of sweat against the baby hairs by her temple.

And then her hands are on his face. Five short-circuits momentarily at the touch before registering the tender, vulnerable look on her face and falling rapidly, stupidly in love all over again.

It’s a familiar feeling. Happens all the time with her. Five swallows thickly, and helplessly melts into the sensation of her shaky palms smoothing back his matted bangs, wiping away the perspiration on _his_ forehead.

“Are...” Vanya searches his hard-to-read face, hesitating to try and find her voice, “are you okay?”

Is he?

Five forces himself to take a deep, sobering breath. Inhale, exhale. The fresh oxygen clears up the edges of his vision some, allows his mind to resume ticking in the background with a meager amount more gusto. It’s enough to make him think full thoughts, at least.

 _Is_ he okay?

He’s bruised in some places, and has some scratches that smart. He could probably use a good meal. The Commission is still at large, but Vanya is naked underneath him and glows like something out of a fairy tale. He did that. After everything that had transpired, _he_ did _that_ and she was still here, still asking if _he_ was okay.

Five nods. He opens his mouth and at first nothing comes out, throat too dry, so he swallows and licks his lips and tries again.

“Are we good?” he asks, quiet.

He can’t remember the last time he was so afraid to ask something. He’s glad he went ahead and did it, letting himself be carried by the flood of adrenaline and chemicals that hadn’t yet worn off, because if he waited he wasn’t sure he’d be strong enough to say the words. Strong enough to handle the consequences.

Not that he’s sure he can anyway.

“...Can I be honest?” Vanya bites her lip, nervously. It’s automatically like cold water dumping on his head — the tunnel vision is immediate, as is his heart rate skyrocketing into his skull. He’s dimly aware that he’s no longer plugging her full, and that something hot is dripping and coating down her thighs and his.

“I’m the happiest girl on earth.”

...Wait, what? _What?_

“Isn’t that weird?” Vanya sounds out of breath, bashful. The pitch of her voice is weird in a way he hasn’t heard since — maybe since that time he was running unacceptably late and had to resort to grabbing her an oversized bouquet for her birthday. At the time, when he placed the blooms into her arms and she thanked him, he thought she was upset or disappointed and trying to hide it. 

But now? 

“I never thought that would be me,” she admits. She clearly can’t stop smiling. He can’t ever recall seeing Vanya Hargreeves this happy. Ever.

Five allows himself a few precious seconds to reach up, cup her face in his hands, hold her smile between them. He studies the exact shade of rose on her cheeks and how big her shy pupils are as she gazes directly at him.

 _I love you_ , he thinks, instantly hard again as he hauls her into his arms. He’s already kissing her, obsessed with her existence as he carries her to the bedroom with her wrapped around him. _I am so fucking in love with you_.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Five answers. He can articulate all his feelings later, after he’s had more of his fill of her. He uses one foot to kick her door open; her bed is an inviting disaster, just how he left it, and the pollen is still hard at work as he drops her on the bed and savors her tiny, flustered gasp.

“But for what it’s worth, I don’t think it’s weird at all,” he adds with one last wry, pointed glance as he straddles her, laces their fingers together firmly, and leans down with a smirk. “I'm quite fond of your new senior superlative.”

**Author's Note:**

> *CLENCHES FIST* I HAVE BEEN WORKING ON THIS STUPID FIC FOR LIKE OVER A FKN MONTH!!!! A MONTH!!! DO U HEAR ME!?!?!?!?!? and it's finally DONE and i'm SO FUCKING HAPPY I COULD CRY. 
> 
> this is wholeheartedly dedicated to @lofticries for being the absolute salt of the earth in ways she will never begin to grasp. she is the only reason this got done even if she DOESN'T KNOW IT. happy birthday fiveya kween, you are enthralling and fantastic and a million other things i will not embarrass us with in the author's notes, I LOVE YOU. I HOPE THIS DIDN'T DISAPPOINT. also a SPECIAL super duper thanks to my darling miss sheri for inspiring the bookshelf sex, You Are Legitimately Too Good For This World!!!!
> 
> <333 (and to the rest of you, thank you for reading, ily a lot)


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